


The Strange Capers of Carmen Sandiego and Julia Argent

by LunarRavenWitch



Category: Carmen Sandiego (Cartoon 2019), Where in the World Is Carmen Sandiego?
Genre: A narrator with issues, A pirate or two, Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, And everyone's going on adventures to learn more about themselves, F/F, Fluff and Angst, Gender Issues, Hijinks & Shenanigans, Implied Countess Cleo/Dr. Bellum, Implied El Topo/Le Chevre, Mental Health Issues, Mild use of firearms, More Than Canon-Typical Violence, Mutual Pining, Partners in Crime, Slow Burn, Suicidal Thoughts, Trans Ivy, Trauma, cool ladies do cool stuff and also deal with trauma and identity and love, history facts, innuendos, no one is straight, non-major character death
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-18
Updated: 2019-06-18
Packaged: 2020-03-26 06:34:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19000306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LunarRavenWitch/pseuds/LunarRavenWitch
Summary: Two heroes, opposed on almost every front, come together as partners in crime. It's a recipe for disaster more than it is a recipe for revolutionary love, but, well, people are a complicated sort, aren't they?You're just going to have to believe me when I say it works out in the end.





	1. What's past (Updated)

**Author’s Note**  
I’m about to do something incredibly stupid.

By all accounts, I am making a bad move. Any idea requiring from a cold engine room, a pair of pliers, a black ballpoint pen, a defiant attitude against time, born from the fear of being erased and the greater fear of a bad end— any such idea is too bombastic, too rebelliously foolish to work.  
But I don’t care. There is a certain clarity in anxiety, the eye of the storm, so to speak, and for once I am totally determined to do what I must do.

This is a story I have to tell. It's intrinsically tied to my heart, and I am inevitably at its core. So I intend to tell it, before I lose my chance to remembered forever.  
The story is, I admit, a messy one, and I’m somewhat messy myself. It's peculiar, its players complex and imperfect, its circumstances unlikely and _strange_ , but true.

The most unlikely part of all is that it will have a happy ending, that any of this will end happily.  
But it will.  
You’ll just have to believe me.

It’s time. Out of the eye, into the storm.

Chapter 1.

* * *

_October 13, 2019_

_Unmarked ACME Facility in Poitiers, France._

_3:34 a.m. CEST_

The hospital room was blurry and numb.

“Hospital room” is a misnomer, really. It was more of a medical meat locker. It didn’t amount to much more than a brick room with a bed, some state-of-the-art but minimalist medical tech, an IV, and a cabinet with a change of sheets. But ACME needed somewhere to take care of their agents in the event of recklessness, hubris, or simple crap luck— or, in Devineaux’s case, an unfortunate mixture of the three.

Yeah. That wasn’t gonna work. Not exactly ACME’s style, y’know?

The clinic was a dark, closed off couple of rooms hidden behind a brick wall in Poitiers, a clone of hundreds of identical little chambers worldwide, and the alabaster walls were just barely lit by fluorescent lights above that cast light down on the empty white hospital bed against the wall. Julia Argent, in her comfortable black-and-red suit, was standing at the bedside, staring off into the fuzzy parts where the shadows and the light softly kissed. She was thinking.

And I can tell you _exactly_ what she was thinking, that Julia Argent.

For contextt: Julia’s mind was like clockwork. Even when she slept, it kept ticking along, deciphering and puzzling. It was irritating, admittedly, but it was why she had a job with ACME and why she was so close to catching Carmen Sandiego.

As it happens, she was thinking about Carmen fucking Sandiego.

**Author’s Note**  
For Editing  
This simile is tired at best and inaccurate at worst. I don’t have the luxury of time to consider another one right now, so until I can edit these pages, Julia’s mind is called clockwork.  
Minor note: Julia, despite her frustrations with the case, wouldn’t have added that coarse infix at the time, so I’m doing her a favor by adding it in now. I’ll probably take it out later.

She had spent an abnormal amount of time thinking about Carmen fucking Sandiego over the weeks preceding, ever since—the incident. Whenever the clockwork in her head stalled to ask why she couldn’t think about anything else, like her family or Devineaux or art or what she’d eat for lunch (She pushed aside the realization that she hadn’t eaten that day), she’d justify it one way or another with some flimsy excuse and go back to fixating on Carmen Sandiego.

There was something missing. She knew that much. Everything she had ever known about Ms. Sandiego pointed to her being… Well, she didn’t know exactly what Carmen was, but she knew that “ _La femme rouge_ ” wasn’t a cruel, heartless villain. She returned priceless stolen paintings to museums worldwide. She stole from thieves, not from innocents. She delivered the Magna Carta back to the law.

No—Carmen delivered the Magna Carta to _her_ , to _Julia_. For some reason, that part confounded her the most. Why her? She wasn’t a museum. She could probably double as one in a bind, but that wasn’t her job description. She was just Julia. She’d never even met the scarlet shadow until that train ride to Mumbai nor, from her perspective, done anything worth her noticing. Why would Carmen trust her with something so valuable, trust her at all?

That thought passed, stored away for later. The point is that Carmen’s _modus operandi_ didn’t seem to include attacking detectives out of the blue, and yet…

“Miss Argent?”

Julia’s heart skipped a bit, and not in a good way—in the, “Crap, I zoned out on the job again” way. She turned and saw, across from her, the blue-tinted hologram projection of The Chief. Was it just her imagination that she looked a little tired? She wouldn’t have blamed her if she was.

“Y-yes, Chief,” she said..

“Did you hear me, Agent Argent?”

“O-of course, Chief,” she said, “Um—but, if you would not mind repeating that last part, I would dearly appreciate it.”

The Chief sighed, and Julia softly worried about some kind of professional rebuke, but The Chief was understanding, in a way. She was the kind of woman you’d expect to speak bluntly more often than she actually did. “My apologies, Agent,” she said with a downturned eye, “For calling you in here so late. The fact of the matter is that this is the first time we’ve been able to get a good reading on Devineaux’s condition since the incident, and as such, there are certain things we need to discuss regarding the continuation of your duties as an ACME agent.”

Julia froze. “Do you mean…?”

The Chief smiled. “Don’t worry, Miss Argent. Mr. Devineaux is going to be alright.”

Julia felt a small weight removed from her shoulders. One less thing to worry about, she supposed.

(A tiny voice in the recesses of her head asked, “Why should you have even worried at all?” She tried to push past the brain fog and focus on The Chief instead. There was no time to unpack that now.)

“However,” The Chief said, “We’re not sure how long the recovery process will take. He may be ready to start sleuthing again in a few days, or he might be bedridden for the next month. What we do know is that evil waits for no man. Carmen Sandiego won’t wait for him to recover, and neither will VILE.”

Something in Julia’s chest twisted. She knew the feeling, that sharp crush like clenching roots around her heart: “Injustice.” The Chief was wrong about Carmen Sandiego. She wasn’t like VILE. She couldn’t be, and to lump her in with them—that was injustice. The feeling in Julia’s chest was simultaneously an instinct to protest, to speak out for the truth, and a deafening command to stay quiet.

The Chief stepped to the side with a stride probably practiced many times in front of a mirror for optimal dramatic effect. “Which is why… I’m keeping you on the Carmen Sandiego investigation, Agent Argent. You will be the lead investigator…”

Julia’s heart lifted, rejoiced in hope, in sudden, unbridled excitement.

“... Until your partner returns to active duty.”

Aaaaand there it went, her heart sunk right back down. Not that much—Lead investigator for a time was something, at least. She could make some serious progress. But—there was weird guilt in having been so excited to work without Devineaux, mixed with a confusing, sourceless disgust. There was something The Chief had said that just didn’t sit right with her, but she didn’t have the time to unpack all of those messy, headphone-wires-in-your-pocket feelings.

God, poor Julia.

“Thank you, Chief,” she said. “It is an honor.”

The Chief smiled a fond, tender smile. She began pacing a bit, like that simple affirmation could lift her off the ground. “I remember when I was in your shoes, Agent. So eager to go out there and prove I had what it takes, unwavering in the face of evil. Those were the days. ACME could really use more agents like you, Agent Argent.”

Julia barely heard her. Her thoughts looped back to the start. It was easier to think about Carmen Sandiego than the confusing feelings then arising in her chest. There was something blurry, like where the lights met the shadows, that she just couldn’t see, and—

And this was her opportunity to figure out exactly what that was. After all, she was talking to an eyewitness. There must’ve been something that The Chief wasn’t telling her—or so she hoped. To be honest, she was grasping at straws.

She cleared her throat, hoping the excitement in her pulse didn’t translate too much to her expression.

“Chief,” Julia said, “If you don’t terribly mind, I was wondering…”

“Please, go right ahead, Agent,” said The Chief, turning to face Julia again.

Julia took a quick breath. “Well, if I’m going to be chasing someone so elusive as Carmen Sandiego, I’d like to be as informed as possible about her recent whereabouts.”

“Of course! While there haven’t been any sightings of Carmen Sandiego since the incident, I’m certain—”

“But—” She was almost surprised at her own outburst— “What about _during_ the incident? What exactly did you see that night?”

The Chief’s lip turned down. “Agent Argent, I—” she sighed, “I’ve already told you everything I can. I appreciate your tenacity but, really, there’s nothing left to deduce about that night. I know what I saw, Agent. There is no doubt in my mind that Carmen Sandiego is responsible for what happened to—”

The door at the far side of the room opened, and in, supported by an ACME agent in scrubs, walked Agent Chase Devineaux.

He looked like a French scarecrow that had somehow gotten tipsy on Earl Grey. Droopy eyelids, hazy smile, barely there, leaning on the scrubbed-up agent like a wooden post. His usual uptight tension in his shoulders was gone. He walked in sync with his caretaker, more or less, which was a stark improvement from a few weeks ago.

Julia and The Chief watched as the agent in scrubs took Devineaux to the bed. Julia had to step away from the bed to give the two of them room. Each step she took away from the bed, away from The Chief, was a tightening of a string tied between the two of them, a string that would lead her to the truth, if she could just get a straight answer. She swore there was more.

“Thank you, nurse!” said Devineaux, “You are now relieved of duty!” He snorted. “Always wanted to say that…”

The agent made an inquisitive grunt, looked to The Chief, who nodded, prompting them to clear their throat and leave the room.

Chase sighed with relief as he settled into the bed—and then he saw Julia.

“Aaaah, Miss Argent!” he said, “I almost did not see you there, you—you sneeeaky devil!”

“I’ve been standing here the whole time, Inspector Devineaux.”

“Yes, Julia, but you do have a tendency to blend in with the wallflowers.”

Julia blinked. “Um—”

“The wallpaper, I mean! Wallpaper. You are like _la femme rogue_ , in that you always seem to—poof!—disappear! Heh-ha!”

“Agent Devineaux—” said The Chief.

“Julia, take it from me, Chase Devineaux—you must find a way to stand out better. That! Is how you climb the rungs of society. Not, you know—”

“Julia,” said The Chief, “Don’t—”

“All the awkward standing around and trying not to exist until you can interject some incessant factoid,” said the inspector. Somehow, he was still smiling. His expression hadn’t changed once.

“Do you know what I mean?”

Julia blinked. Her eyes narrowed. She felt something boiling in her gut, and she opened her mouth to speak out—yes, finally, to tell Devineaux that no, actually, she didn’t know, and would he care to elaborate? Please, Mr. Devineaux, tell me how you really feel—

“Julia, may I speak to you outside for a moment?" said The Chief, "I’d like to finish our conversation about Miss Sandiego, and I believe we should give Agent Devineaux some time to rest.”

Julia felt the wind knocked out of her.

“Nonsense!” said Devineaux, “I am feeling spry as a Québécois bobcat! Carmen Sandiego won’t know what hit her…” he lifted himself up, and then, in a fit of wooziness, collapsed back into his pillow. “... By which I mean, she won’t know what _will_ hit her—tomorrow—of course.”

Guilt wormed into Julia’s stomach and nested there. Devineaux was…

Take it from me: He was a pitiable guy. And a few moments ago, she had half a mind to clock him across that square glass jaw.

I don’t blame her. Would be a hypocrite if I did.

“Right away, Chief.” She crossed to the other side of the room and collected her communicator pen. The Chief disappeared in a blink.

She was alone, then—alone with Devineaux whose face was blank as a yellow smiley face emoji.

It was just a short walk out of the room, but to get there… Charybdis and her girlfriend Scylla would be jealous of such a treacherous pass. Any of you with a hint of anxiety in your mind might understand.

But so she walked, focusing on the door. Milliseconds passed like minutes.

“Miss Argent?” said Chase Devineaux.

Julia froze.

“Do not worry too much about me. I will be fine here. ACME has treated me very well so far, and I suspect they shall continue! So, Julia—good luck with Carmen Sandiego while I am here.” He laughed. “You will need it.”

A beat. The words set in like a disease.

“Rest well, Agent Devineaux,” said Julia.

The next thing Julia knew was the door shutting behind her.

She dropped the pen, which landed on its tip. Always did, like a rigged coin. The Chief sprung out like a djinn from a lamp.

The agent in scrubs, who had likely been waiting outside the room since they left, shuffled back in holding a medical kit.

Then they were alone, in a hallway too bright compared to the dimness from which they came, connecting a few safe rooms to a secret door leading back to the real world.

The first words out of The Chief’s holographic mouth were: “Don’t listen to Agent Devineaux, Agent Argent. He’s… well. He’s not in a good headspace—literally.”

“What happened to him, exactly?” Julia asked. She felt it a pertinent question, considering. “Now that you’ve run the proper tests and procedures, I mean.”

“We’re still not entirely sure of the inciting incident’s particulars.” The Chief began pacing, brow furrowed, each step precise. “All that we do know is, whatever happened, it disturbed the flow of neurons through his brain, leading to certain regions going on a temporary lock-down. Nothing in his head is permanently damaged, but it takes a while for the brain to fully come back online after such a system shock. In his current condition, he appears to have impaired impulse control and logical decision making, and his mood is inconsistent. We’re monitoring his brain activity at all times, and we’re giving him all the physical and mental help we can. At this point, we just have to have patience and hope.”

 _It might help if he wasn’t being kept in a repainted prison cell,_ Julia thought.

“Mr. Devineaux is an… unusually sturdy man,” Julia said, avoiding eye contact, “In my time with him as his… associate, I have seen him miraculously survive two car crashes, at least two separate instances of him nearly drowning on his own coffee, and thrice choking on breath mints. I’m quite confident that, somehow, Inspector Devineaux will still be Inspector Devineaux when all this is over.”

The Chief smiled. “I hope you’re right, Agent.”

Julia smiled back—not out of joy, but out of social reflex. Maybe she just needed the brief relief of a smile. “Now, about Carmen Sandiego?”

The Chief nodded. “As I said, you will be leading the Sandiego case for the time being. And—perfect timing—your ACME regulation uniform should be waiting at your apartment as we speak. For now, head home and wait for further…”

Then The Chief suddenly seemed distracted. Her attention turned away from Julia and towards the wall.

“What is it?” said The Chief, bitter professionalism in her voice, “I’m a bit busy here, Agent, so unless it’s—oh. Oh, I see.” She reached out. Her hand went through the wall, and pulled back holding nothing. She inspected the nothing in her hand.

This had happened before. Julia knew by now that the communicator pen was designed to only broadcast The Chief’s body, not anything else in the room, including anything she interacted with. For all Julia knew, The Chief might’ve been standing in the middle of a crowded boardroom, or in a gambling den, or at the top of the Tokyo Tower surrounded by forty-one identical Chiefs. But probably not.

“Chief? Has there been news?”

“Sharp as always, Agent. I’ve just been handed a new report. Looks like our friend has been busy in Cairo.”

“Cairo? She was there just over seven months ago, just before the Eye of Vishnu was uncovered.”

“Yes, but her target this time was no art gallery.” The Chief pressed some buttons on the portable screen that Julia couldn’t see. “I’m sending the information to your ACME cellular sleuth module now.”

“... E-excuse me, Chief—where did you say you were sending the information?”

“Your cellular sleuth module. Itt sounds more investigator-y than ‘cell phone,’ you know, more exciting. I’m trying to get it to catch on—what do you think?”

“Oh, I think that sounds, uh, just wonderful, Chief. Very… concise.”

"I’ll let the boys in R&D know you said that. Maybe then they’ll stop rejecting my proposals..."

Julia felt a rumble in her pocket and took out her cell phone. There was a little notification from “Headquarters.” She opened it up, and a relatively short, classified document spilled out—“short” meaning that, whatever had happened, there wasn’t a lot to go off of.

“I know it isn’t much to go off of,” said The Chief, as if reading Julia’s mind, “Which is why I’m sending you to Cairo to—”

“I know where Carmen Sandiego is going next.”

The Chief blinked. Her eyes grew wide. “What did you say?”

Julia looked up, and— at the time, she wouldn’t have been able to describe the feeling coursing through her. She felt calm on the surface, but under that calm, she was a live wire, electrified, approach at your own risk—every thunderous beat of her heart brought a new hope, a new glorious and radiant concept. For that brief moment, she wasn’t clockwork at all. She was the storm.

She forgot about the pit in her chest, about worry, about Devineaux, because she knew. Without a doubt—

“I know Carmen Sandiego’s next target.”

“How can you know for sure?”

“Chief,” she said, “I understand that you’re skeptical, especially since I’m travelling solo, but this could be our best chance yet to get one step ahead of Carmen Sandiego. You just have to trust me.”

_Trust me that I understand Carmen Sandiego._

The Chief paused, considering, weighing her worries and hopes.

“... Agent Argent,” she said, “Where in the world am I sending you?”

* * *

**A Brief Note**  
I admit, I’m extrapolating a bit here, at the beginning of this story. It took a lot of searching and investigation to gather all the information I didn’t already know for the story, but in this beginning section, the details are especially fuzzy, so understand that I am sacrificing accuracy for a half-decent tale.

* * *

_October 13, 2019_

_Cairo, Egypt_

_3:19 a.m. EET—15 minutes earlier_

Cairo lay asleep, hazy with smog and stark city-lights. The Cairo Tower loomed above, like a Queen in a cloak of an iron fishing net and a lotus flower collar (Look up a picture of the tower if you haven’t seen it. It’s astonishingly lovely, with a somewhat alien appeal). Distant traffic yawned past.

Rebellious, synthesized street music from below rose like smoke, up the sixty stories to the viewing terrace at the top of the tower, an iron-wrought balcony clinging around the tower’s circumference, where, right on beat, Carmen Sandiego’s heel cracked across Le Chevre’s cheek, sending him reeling.

“Merde—!” he cursed. He was wearing a skin-tight black suit, and every move he made was a stroke of shadow—and resting against his hip and slung over his shoulder was a sleek, square, black package. He lifted a hand to his cheek, and his fingers came back smudged with crimson.

And in rhythm with the distant song below, Carmen’s fiery coat flowed with the breeze. Her hat cast a shadow over her cocky, smirking lips. She pivoted, holding out her hand and signalling, _Come on._ Le Chevre glared.

 **Author’s Note.** Find a way to better introduce a fight scene.

A high kick from the goat, a spin, and a second, hitting air, the rogue drifting between the blows—a third spin, a heavy kick, but Carmen caught it in hand and reversed the blow’s momentum, sending Le Chevre flailing to the floor. He leapt to his feet, pouncing at Carmen—like wispy scarlet flame, she stepped aside, untouchable—and he sailed past her. His ribs met the iron railing. “Ugh!” He turned back around, regaining his balance, glaring.

“You are not taking me seriously!” he accused.

“I'm taking you seriously,” Carmen quipped. “Seriously in need of more training. Consider me your instructor.”

Le Chevre sighed. Black Sheep never changed. Then the two continued their dance.

Well, for Carmen it was a dance. She kept rhythm with the song below, dodging in 4/4 time. For Le Chevre, it was more of a rigged carnival game. Every blow Le Chevre offered, Carmen twirled or leaned around, leading the human goat slowly in circles around the terrace, watching as sweat broke out across his face, as his attacks, heavy with lethargy, began to look more and more like he was punching through a lake of bread dough.

“Just—stand—still!” He swung his leg up at her face like a blade, but it hit Carmen’s raised forearm with all the impact of a pillow. They stood stuck in that position for a moment.

“Tell me what’s in the bag, Jean Paul, and I’ll think about it.”

His eye twitched. “Do not use that name, you—you tomato soup-colored traitor!”

“Ooooh, _creative._ ” Le Chevre reared back with another kick, which Carmen simply pushed aside. “Did Dr. Bellum finally get around to teaching that course on nefarious one-liners?”

Le Chevre’s hands balled into fists as he dizzily stepped away. “Are you _trying_ to mock me!?”

“Nooo, Chev-Chev,” she said, “Whatever gave you that idea? You know, you always were a sore loser in class. Makes it fun to fight you.”

“Why, you—” and just then, while his guard was down, he felt a sharp boot to the side of his face, sending his whole world reeling sideways. He kept on his feet, but barely.

“See?”

And in that moment, staring at Le Chevre while she had the upper hand, it almost felt like they were back in school.

Le Chevre’s earpiece crackled.

“ _Er—Jean Paul?_ ” came the voice of El Topo.

Le Chevre stood to attention, raising two fingers to his earpiece. Carmen stood and watched, arms crossed. “What is it, my friend?”

“ _You do have the payload, don’t you?_ ”

“Yes, of course. I am a bit—”

“ _Good! Then get down here! I’m almost to the tower, and I’m being chased by two crazy redheads on jetskis!_ ”

And then Le Chevre saw it—the disturbance in the water of the Nile, barely noticeable if not for the rippling trail it left behind as it slowly emerged, a perfectly spherical, black-and-green VILE escape submersible.

And trailing that vehicle, kicking up more water than a kid on an extensively dangerous waterslide, were two crazy redheads on jetskis. Who would’ve guessed?

“Ivy!” called one to the other over the roar of their fiber-reinforced plastic steeds. “Is it legal to drive a jetski through the Nile River?”

“Little late in our careers to be worried about legality, bro!” replied the other.

“Exactly what I like to hear!” And Zack revved his steed and leaned forward, full steam ahead. “Last one to catch the mole’s a stale falafel!”

“Oh, you’re _so_ on!” And the fiery siblings sped up, driving around each other in a nearly perfect helical pattern.

“ _Jean Paul! They are gaining on me!_ ” crackled the voice of El Topo.

Le Chevre glanced back at Carmen Sandiego, who was standing there—no pickpocketing, no fighting, no tricks, it seemed.

Until she took a step forward. “C’mon, Jea—”

Le Chevre’s foot sunk into Carmen’s gut, the rib-filled spot between the breast and the navel. She yelped as pain shot all through her body. The bandages tight around her ribcage stretched with the blow, and the tender, healing ribs beneath screamed in agony. The force and the pain pushed her back.

Le Chevre quickly backpedaled, scurrying up onto the balcony railing. _Come on, Carmen, think of something._

Le Chevre said, “See you next time, Carmen Sandi—”

“Why are we still doing this?”

Le Chevre blinked. He forgot for a moment about the chase transpiring underfoot.

“What are you talking about? Do not think I will fall for some kind of trick! Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me four times—”

“That’s _exactly_ what I’m talking about. Look—” She took a step towards Le Chevre.

“Don’t come any closer!”

She stopped, expression turning from indignant to resigned—tired. She sighed. “We can’t keep doing this forever.”

“On the contrary—my associates and I are willing to fend you off for as long as it takes!”

“For as long as _what_ takes? As long as it takes for VILE to, I dunno, achieve world domination or whatever cheesy scheme they’re after? As long as it takes for you to win? Or as long as it takes for VILE to _replace_ you?”

Le Chevre’s fist clenched. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m not going to stand here and listen to you bad-mouth your old employer.”

"Old Family" is what Carmen heard.

“Then why _are_ you still standing there, Jean Paul?”

Le Chevre’s voice was a low-rumbling engine buried under a snowstorm. “I told you not to—”

“We were friends, weren’t we?”

Le Chevre looked away. Carmen continued: “We all were. You, me, Antonio… Gray. Sheena, even! Be honest with yourself, Jean Paul. Put aside the codenames and the grudge, and be honest. This life isn’t for you. It’s not for _anyone_! Stealing from innocent people, putting lives at risk—not just _theirs_ , but _yours_ —all in the name of a company that will wring you for all the evil and cash they can get, then throw you away like nothing.”

A rogue wind chilled the scene, ruffled Carmen’s coat and threatened to knock Le Chevre—Jean Paul, almost, only almost—over, but stood there on the railing like a statue. The hand over the package clenched and unclenched.

“Just listen to me,” said Carmen, "Put down the bag, Jean Paul.”

“... What are you trying to do, Carmen?” said Le Chevre.

A beat.

“Jean Paul,” she said, “I’m trying to save you.”

Le Chevre looked her in the eye.

“I do not need your saving, Black Sheep.”

Then he fell backwards, like an angel, into dark.

“Jean Paul!” she screamed. She rushed to the railing and, without thinking, leapt off after him.

She was diving down through the sea of night, her coat flowing behind her like a heroine’s cape. Her paper airplane-shaped glider folded out from her coat’s back, and she sailed down, focused entirely on her falling friend, falling upside down, headfirst, as if suspended by a secret string around his ankle.

And then he spread his arms, revealing the membrane between the limbs of his suit—his wing-suit. The wind caught, and in a rush, he glided towards the Nile.

Carmen cursed under her breath, jerked her nosedive up to pursue, but Le Chevre was well ahead of her.

Meanwhile, back down in the river, Zack’s vision narrowed at the goat-bat chimera gliding in. “Incoming bad guy, 10 o’clock! We might have trouble on our hands.”

Ivy turned, saw the package dangling down from his shoulder.

And, like the appearance of an artist’s muse, inspiration struck. A spreading flame named action set alight in her gut.

“Zack!” Ivy called, “I’m about to do some Mario shit! When I say stop, stop!”

Zack snapped to Ivy. He looked at his sister like she said she was going to try to ride a great white shark while juggling flaming bowling pins. “You’re gonna do _what_ , sis!?”

“Mario! You know, the plumber?” Zack blinked. “Just _trust_ me!”

“Oh, Ivy, I _hate_ it when you say that!” He made a sound like a stalling generator, shook his head, and tried to breathe. Ivy accelerated, blazing a path forward, and Zack had no choice but to follow suit. They nipped at El Topo’s heels.

Until they rushed past him. The sub had come to a sudden stop, El Topo emerging from a hatch in its roof.

Ahead, Le Chevre turned southward, towards the sub. It would be a difficult mark to land on, but this kind of stunt was what he was born for. Land on the sub, escape by way of the river—it was foolproof.

Well. Almost foolproof. The foolish are often undaunted, you see—resolute in ideas just silly enough to work.

The siblings and the goat were soon to pass each other.

“Ivy!?” said Zack, “You sure about this?”

“As sure as I always am!”

“Not helping!”

Le Chevre was just about to pass overhead—

“Stop!” screamed Ivy. And Zack, against his better judgement, slowed his jetski to a crawl—

Ivy’s heart beat heavily in her chest. _Here goes nothing._

And she sprung off her jetski, trampolined off her brother’s shoulder, sailing forward in defiance of gravity, right in the way of Le Chevre. There was determination and fear in her eyes—

Ivy and Le Chevre collided mid-air, passed one another—

And then there were two great splashes in the middle of the Nile.

On opposite sides of the crash site, Zack pulled his jet ski over, examining the scene. Behind him, El Topo shouted, “Le Chevre!?” There was a third splash as he dove into the Nile.

A few moments later, El Topo reemerged with Le Chevre strung over his shoulders.

“Jean Paul! Jean Paul, are you alright?”

Le Chevre sighed deeply. “I am fine, Antonio. Maybe a bit sore—“ His face twisted like he was about to puke. His ribs and back screamed in agony. He’d hit the water like concrete. He clutched tight around El Topo’s neck. “Come on. Let us get back to the sub—quickly.”

El Topo smiled like all the light in his life had been saved—which, well, it kind of had. “C’mon, my friend! We will be back on Vile Island before you can say—”

“Yes, yes, please, let’s just get out of here.”

El Topo nodded and swam off towards his sub. He felt like he had won, even though...

“Do you still have the payload, Jean Paul?”

A beat.

With all the energy of a barrel of tar, Le Chevre muttered, “Merde.”

A few meters away, Zack stared down at the water’s surface.

“Ivy…?”

An expanse of blue, rippling gently.

“Ivy, c’mon…”

The surface burbled a bit. The world was frozen.

I don’t know what Zack was thinking, but if I were him, I’d wonder if she’d ever come back up. I would stand there, stuck in fight-or-flight.

But then a way-too-energetic rocket girl tomboy practically leapt out of the water, holding a black leather package over her head.

“Woo-hoo!” she cried, “That was the coolest shit I’ve done _yet!_ I _love_ this job!”

Zack sighed with relief. “Jesus, sis, you gave me a fuckin’ heart attack!”

“Oh, cheer up, Zack-Attack— _you_ just got a front row seat to the Ivy show, _for free!_ ”

“No one told me that you’d use me for your stunts!”

“Comes with the territory, bro—the territory of being related to a master thief!”

Zack facepalmed. “Yeah, real masterful. Just get on the jetski.”

On the bank of the river, Carmen Sandiego hit the ground in a superhero kneel, her glider folding up into her coat. She rose—“Ugh!!” She had barely moved an inch before tendrils of pain crept into her vision, rising up from everywhere. Her free hand shot to her abdomen—beneath the layers of fabric, cloth bandages criss-crossed her torso, binding bruised ribs, and Le Chevre’s kick was a not-so-gentle reminder of that.

The memory came back to her, still raw. The dark room, two arms that used to hold her so securely crushing her breath, and if it weren’t for Shadowsan—

“ _Carmen! What’s the mission status?_ ” squeaked the Canadian voice in her ear.

Carmen sighed, thankful for the distraction. “Looks like Ivy got the package.” She lowered herself onto her butt, leaning back in such a way that her ribs didn’t feel _too_ much like they were rapturously severing her mortal form in half.

She watched as El Topo lowered Le Chevre into their little love-sub, then climbed in and piloted them away downstream. “Huh. Guess he didn’t need my help after all,” she said. It _sounded_ like a joke, or at least an ironic witticism. It—well. It wasn’t.

She watched as her friends drove away, disappearing into the night, and I imagine she must’ve thought the same thing Zack did—would they ever come back up?

“ _Sounds like another mission accomplished!_ ” said Player, “ _Not that I expect anything less from_ the _Carmen Sandiego_ ”

“Well, thanks for keeping me _humble_ ,” she muttered, half-paying attention.

“ _Anytime, Red._ ”

“Hey—” She tried to distract herself, “It’s three in the morning. Shouldn’t you be in bed?”

“ _It’s three in the morning for_ you _. It’s just past nine for me._ ”

“Right—timezones. Easy to forget sometimes, y’know?”

“ _Yeah, I know. Besides—crimefighting doesn’t have a bedtime._ ”

“Maybe _you_ should.”

“ _Don’t give me that speech, Red,_ ” Player joked, “ _You sound like my moms._ ”

“Maybe you should listen to your moms. Sounds to me like they want what’s best for you.”

“ _I know, I know—but, on the flip side, you’re one to talk._ ”

Carmen smiled, a little—bittersweet?

“You got me there, Player.”

**Author’s Note**  
I wish I could stand on a soapbox and talk about how important it was for Player to get enough sleep at night, him being a growing kid and all, but considering my own history with sleep schedules, I’d be a hypocrite.

“Hey, Carm!” came Ivy’s voice. Carmen blinked. Ivy and Zack were jogging over to her, Ivy clutching the payload in her hand. Carmen hadn’t noticed them leave the water.

“Hey, Ivy,” she said.

Ivy stopped and hopped up and down, clutching the package to her chest. Her hair and t-shirt were plastered to her skin from the impromptu swim, and her cargo pants were soggy-saggy, and her hopping around created a small localized rainstorm for her two thieving companions. “Did you _see_ what I pulled back there!?” Her eyes were sparkling so much, they could light up a broom closet. “I was like—vroom!—and then—woooOOOOoooah—and Zack was like, _Aw, hey, stop jumpin’, on me!_ —but then—she goes for the steal—she scores!! And the crowd goes _wild!_ ” Ivy put a hand over her mouth and imitated the sound of a stadium crowd cheering with stunning accuracy.

“Shame I missed it,” said Carmen.

Zack crossed his arms. “Yeah, it was pretty cool, I guess.”

“Aw, don’t be so jealous, Zack,” teased Carmen, “I’ll make sure you have an _extra_ stylish job next caper.”

Zack looked at Carmen for a moment, his expression unusually stony, then just—sort of looked away, eyes turned down, which was not his usual way of reacting to just about anything.

~~Before Carmen could say anything to Zack, Ivy pushed her wet package—~~

**Author’s Note. For the future, when writing in pen, think extra carefully on how a sentence will sound out loud.**

Ivy pushed the damp bundle into Zack’s chest. “Open it up, bro!! Let’s see what all this hubbub was all about!”

“Alright, alright, keep your skull on…” He popped the clasps of the black leather package open, withdrawing from its dry interior…

“... A buncha old papers?” Ivy’s shoulders slumped, and her eyebrows rose in confusion.

“What the—?” He looked like someone had suddenly sledgehammered him in the gut as he looked over the cover page of _several_ inches of old, yellowing parchment. He squinted. “Opti-cay… Thesavruhvis… Alhazeni? Carm, what is this?” He lowered the parchment down to Carmen.

Carmen took a closer look. “Opticae Thesaurus Alhazen. It’s Latin— _this_ is the Book of Optics!”

“The book of what now?” said Ivy, “Optics like—” She made little circles with her fingers and put them over her eyes, “Glasses and stuff?”

“Yes, but there’s more to it than that. Player?”

“ _I’m already on it, Red. Analyzing VILE harddrive data for anything related to Alhazen… Hm. Drawing a blank. Okay, maybe a news search…_ ”

Ivy offered her hand down to Carmen. “Mind explainin’ what’s going on here, Ms. Smartypants?”

Carmen smiled up at her and took her hand. She had to squint and grit her teeth to mask the pain as Ivy pulled her up, and she hoped no one would notice.

“Woah, Carm,” Ivy said, “Are you all right?”

“What? Yeah, I’m fine.” She smiled—she was a splendid liar. “No worries here.”

Ivy and Zack both raised opposite eyebrows at her, in an anxiety-provoking, twin-synchronicity kind of way.

“... Okay, so, _maybe_ goat boy got a good kick in—”

“Caaarm!” Zack groaned. “We told you to be careful!”

“Actually,” said Ivy, “We told you to try not to get into a fight at all!”

“If you get hurt again, you’re gonna be out of commission for a _lot_ longer than we thought.”

“I know,” said Carmen to bury the guilt, “I know—wow, you guys sound like—”

“ _My moms?_ ” Carmen could hear the smile behind her earpiece.

She sighed. “Look, I'll be fine, alright?”

"Carm--" said Zack.

“ _Found something!_ ” Carmen looked vaguely in the direction of her ear, turning her attention to Player. This time, the voice crackled up from Ivy and Zack’s hips, prompting them to pull out their phones and listen in.

“Whatcha got, Player One?” asked Ivy.

“ _Well, as it turns out, Alhazen’s name has been in the news recently for the first time in a few centuries. There was a major find near Basra, Iraq—an academic boatload of missing manuscripts from The Physicist himself! Presently, those documents are being held for investigation and research at…_ ” The sounds of keyboard clicking. “ _The Massachusetts Institute of Technology._ ”

“Then I’d be willing to bet that’s where VILE’s headed next,” said Carmen, “This caper must’ve been a warning—and the start to a new collection. The real prize is waiting at MIT.”

“MIT?” said Ivy.

“But that means…” said Zack.

They looked at each other, stars twinkling in their eyes, and in unison shouted: 

“ _We’re going back to Boston!_ ”

“Up high, lil bro!” The two high-fived in perfect, practiced, energetic fashion, and Carmen smiled as she watched.

“ _Want me to book you a red-eye for Boston Logan, Red?_ ”

“You know it, Player. Ivy, Zack—I’ll tell you more about who Alhazen is and what all this means on the way there.”

And so the team moved on, on to the next caper—they’d been to Cairo once before, back during the art gallery caper, and there hadn’t been any chance for sight-seeing back then either. There rarely was.

It had begun to feel routine, really—going from place to place, fighting off VILE, winning. It was simple, like a one-way racetrack with a fifty meter head start.

But routines are dangerous and fragile things.

* * *

**A confession**  
I’m not actually a writer. I’m a chronicler, perhaps, and a note-taker, but any sense of style I may feign to have is from years of bookworming. This writing thing is a recent and short affair. That being said: if I don’t write this story, no one will.

* * *

_October 13, 2019_

_Isle of VILE, Canary Islands, Spain_

_9:05 a.m. WEST_

Green, green light, all focused, it seemed, on a single woman with eyes like coals.

“Would you care to explain yourself, Le Chevre?”

Countess Cleo’s voice was seven different kinds of cutting. She had sharpened and honed her speech for years, such that, with a word, she could cut you down to size.

To her right, Professor Gunnar Maelstrom sat hunched forward, hands folded in front of his nose, glaring at Le Chevre like their failing agent was little more than a psychological case. I’d be willing to bet he was taking mental notes in his mind, hypothesizing if and when Le Chevre would break. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe tonight.

To his right, Coach Brunt was barely there. She was still in one of those ill-fitting neck-casts, which she’d been put in just in case after the… incident. She stared away, as if the wall was more interesting than another failure of her teaching.

To Countess Cleo’s left, Dr. Saira Bellum smiled. She had a very specific smile she wore when Cleo talked, like she was just tuning in to a particularly juicy game of baseball. Behind those goggles of hers, though, she was inscrutable.

The chair to Dr. Bellum’s left was empty. Not even a shadow.

El Topo stood upright, hands behind his back, off to the side, watching, but Le Chevre—Le Chevre stood smack in the middle of the VILE emblem, right in the limelight, his eyes trained on the floor, trying his hardest to remain expressionless. Even though the faculty was only raised a few feet in the air on their circular platform, it felt like they were giants looking down from the top of Mount Olympus, and the spotlights above them shone like the divine judgement.

Le Chevre opened his mouth, started, stopped, started again. His mind raced, trying to think of a way to soften the blow, searching for anything—

“Esteemed VILE faculty,” he began—

“Skip the pleasantries,” cut Countess Cleo.

Le Chevre flinched. “Carmen Sandiego took the package,” he spat out.

There was a communal sigh across the table. The sigh said, _Of-fucking-course._

“Oh, Carmen Sandiego took the package!” groaned Coach Brunt, “Darn rascal! Gosh, who could’a seen _that_ one comin’?”

Countess Cleo leaned forward. Her features threatened something eldritch and inscrutable.

Le Chevre gulped. “Th-there was nothing I could do!! She—” his arms shook, and then—“She is _invincible!_ Look at me! I’m more bruised than a granny smith apple! She threw me into a river, trampled my pride, and stole my dignity on the way out! And I am still WET in UN _COMF_ ORTABLE places!”

“That’s enough!” said Countess Cleo. She pinched her brow. “Le Chevre, since you have failed once again to complete your mission, is there _anything_ of value you bring to us, or have you simply wasted our time—again?”

Le Chevre breathed heavily for a few beats, wracking his brain, then—“Yes! Yes, there is something. Carmen Sandiego—she is injured. I do not know what happened, but—whichever operative fights her next _could_ use that to their advantage!”

“Right—use it to their advantage like _you_ could have,” quipped Dr. Bellum. “Yet, strangely, you failed to capitalize. How _interesting_.”

Le Chevre stumbled over his words. He could’ve sworn Bellum’s goggles were glass made from the sand by the River Styx. He stared into his own demise, and he thought of Crackle.

“That’s enough,” said Cleo. “El Topo—escort _this one_ to the hospital bay.”

“Yes ma’am!” El Topo rushed to Le Chevre’s groaning side, guiding him out of the meeting room with a delicate hand on his shoulders. “Come along, _mi compañero_ —let’s get you some hot cocoa and a nice nap.”

As soon as the door shut behind them, the air grew thick inside the VILE meeting room.

“Well?” said Dr. Bellum, “What now?”

Countess Cleo glanced to her right. “This was _your_ plan, was it not, Professor Maelstrom?”

“Indeed it was,” Maelstrom said, sitting up and smearing on his sickly grin, “Not to worry. Though adding the Book of Optics to my collection would have been delectable indeed, we have nonetheless sent a message to our next target that are _still_ very much a threat. The Book of Optics was—pittance, really. The Crown Jewels of this scheme lie at MIT.”

“MIT!?” said Dr. Bellum. “ _That_ is where the manuscripts are!?”

Maelstrom raised an eyebrow. The two met eyes. “Why, yes. We planned this out months ago—don’t tell me you missed that part of the meeting, Dr. Bellum. Too busy squandering our proprietary broadband surfing the internet, perhaps?”

Behind the goggles, Dr. Bellum glared.

“What’s the matter, anyhow?” Maelstrom continued. He almost sounded like he was enjoying himself. “It’s just a school. We’ve stolen from far more upstanding institutions in the past, so it certainly can’t be an issue of, ugh, _morals_ —you don’t have any _personal_ inhibitions about sending an operative to the institute, do you?”

Maelstrom was smiling like a devil into his own reflection in Dr. Bellum’s goggles. She refused to lose the staring contest, but under the surface, words were failing her. “I—”

“Don’t be silly, Gunnar,” cut in Countess Cleo, “Heaven knows none of us are so foolish as to hold such petty sentimentalities. However, I believe I speak for both the good doctor and myself when I say that we thought we were _above_ stealing from… _College students._ ” She rolled her eyes for effect.

“Hmph.” Maelstrom turned away like a drama queen, as he did whenever he was about to mansplain—er, speak at length on an issue. Secretly, Dr. Bellum sighed with relief.

“As I’m sure the four of you recall from our last meeting, these recovered Alhazen manuscripts may be the kickstart I need for Operation Pennybags.”

The rest of the table groaned, almost on cue, like some kind of inside joke.

“And if _that_ doesn’t work—”

“Which it won’t,” said Dr. Bellum. “The science makes no sense.”

“—It is still excellent payback.” Maelstrom smirked into the middle distance. “As soon as Paper Star returns with the manuscripts in hand, I can play a whole new ballgame—so to speak.”

Dr. Bellum snickered.

“What is it this time, Dr. Bellum?”

“Oh, nothing, Professor. Only—Tigress is the one en route to MIT, not Paper Star.”

The words slapped the cockiness out of Maelstrom’s pointy cheekbones. “I beg your pardon? Paper Star is the perfect candidate! She—this is an entire caper about stealing _paper!_ It is—her wheelhouse!”

“Paper Star was deemed ineligible for such a mission after her failure in Mumbai, during which, if you recall, she disrespected orders and basic VILE protocol, hence her recent make-up classes.”

Maelstrom’s eye twitched. “That was the mission,” he argued, “Wherein Paper Star uncovered the existence ACME!”

“Yes,” said Cleo, “And look at what that got us: a temporarily kidnapped idiot detective— who escaped, by the way— and a missing faculty member!”

Dr. Maelstrom stood with a start. He didn’t seem to hear her. He looked like he was choking on a ghost pepper. “Well, whose idea was it to send Tigress, of all people!?” cried Maelstrom. “All of her missions have been complete disasters!” His shoulders shaking with unsteady breath, he looked all across the table.

No one said anything. His frustration slowly turned to dread realization, and—

“Three.”

Maelstrom blinked. “I-I beg your pardon, Coach Brunt?”

Brunt had her arms crossed. She was still staring off, and in that pose, she almost resembled the faculty member used to sit on the other end from her.

“Three,” she repeated. “You said ‘the four of you’ earlier. Excluding you, there are only three of us.”

A beat.

“Coach Brunt—”

“He’s gone, Maelstrom.” Coach Brunt’s glare shot back to the group. “Shadowsan is gone. Hell if I know why or how or whose fault it is, but I get the feelin’ he ain’t comin’ back. So, if y’all wanna keep squabblin’, that’s fine. We’ll just sit and here and squabble while Carmen Sandiego cleans house with every last thing we throw at her, because _we_ can’t even agree on what to eat for dinner. This is war, y’all—now that Shadowsan is gone, this is war, and we’re losin’.” Brunt slapped the table—“So! What the _fuck_ are we gonna do about that?”

Maelstrom sat down. Bellum and Cleo turned slightly towards each other, unsure.

“Now—” Coach Brunt combed a hand through her hair, wiping off some sweat with it, “Shadowsan and I—we didn’t see eye-to-eye on much<, but one thing he and I agreed on was that certain traditions have to be upheld. Since the very start of VILE, there’ve been five masterminds at this table. Now there are four—and that just doesn’t seem right. So, step one, if y’all ask me, is to introduce a lil’ bit of new leadership.” Brunt sat down, spurring the meeting to resume.

“I suppose that wouldn’t hurt,” said Maelstrom, “I’ll… Admit that it has not felt the same since Shadowsan’s, er, sudden departure.”

“Who do you recommend we invite then?” asked Cleo.

“There must be some masterminds we still have good relations with,” said Dr. Bellum. Maelstrom sort of coughed and pulled his collar when she did.

“Godfather Zapper?” proposed Professor Maelstrom.

“Too cowardly,” said Brunt.

“What about that General fellow,” said Cleo, “Mayweather Hamilton?”

“ _Far_ too dramatic,” said Professor Maelstrom, “We need someone who’s a bit more down-to-Earth.”

“... But definitely a _little_ dramatic, right?” said Dr. Bellum.

The table murmured their agreement—“Yes, of course, obviously.”

“What about Miss Larson?” said Dr. Bellum.

The whole rest of the table groaned.

“No, no—we need someone _tough_ ,” said Cleo, “Someone with the constitution and drive to help us crush Carmen Sandiego’s meddling ways.”

The table sat in silent consideration.

“... What about…” began Bellum.

“... The Captain?” finished Maelstrom.

“She would never join,” said Cleo. “She’s too self-motivated, too prideful in her work—she’s practically feral.”

“But she’s everything we need right now,” said Brunt.

“Perhaps…” said Maelstrom, “If we appeal to her baser instincts, her pride—then we could convince her that joining us is a good investment.”

For the first time in weeks, Coach Brunt smiled. “Sounds just crazy enough to work. Time of some… targeted recruitment.”

* * *

_Recently_

_Nowhere_

An Amazonian figure in black trudged through a white plane of nothingness. It was cold. The wind conducted a symphony. The figure was dragging something through the snow: it was tied to the end of a rope, and looked somewhat like a watermelon-sized hourglass, protected by a metal cage, with something multicolored and pulsing at its core, something that resembled entropy.

A kilometer behind them, the fresh carcass of the vessel by which the figure came lay ruined, bleeding a black cloud of smoke that the storm consumed.

We’re going to call this figure “The Ghost.”

The Ghost marched on. Soon, the snowstorm was too much auditory static to bear, and they clicked a little dial behind their ear to make it shut up.

And that is nearly all I can write for now, for now is not the time to talk about The Ghost. But I can offer a few words more, and a quote that, for some reason, won’t leave my head.

**A Quote**

_What’s past is prologue._

Through the haze of the snow, a small metal fortress that might as well have not existed revealed itself. The Ghost approached its door, entered a code into a terminal, and dragged their body and their load inside.

The door shut behind them.

The snowy symphony sung on, unheard by all but me, your not-so-humble narrator, the only living soul to see the Ghost that night. Yes, I was there, watching from beside the ruined vessel, unnoticed. My soul hurt as I watched them disappear, as I tried to steel myself for what comes next.

Here goes nothing.


	2. Breaks on a Plane (Updated)

**For My Near Future Self**  
In reviewing the past chapter, I’ve realized I may have made a few literary mistakes. The notes I’ve left are somewhat scatterbrained and certainly unprofessional. Granted, I was in a critical state of mind, but that does not excuse imperfection. So, in the future, I must try to use these notes to signal areas that require editing and keep my own feelings out of the prose. I have an objective, so I must remain objective.

That said, I’ll strike these notes out before the story is in any condition to be read, so if I _must_ make a comment, I’ll just keep it in the notes. Future self, keep this in mind: the story is your second most important objective. Do try to treat it as such.

* * *

_October 13, 2019_

_The clouds above Libya_

_5:05 EET_

If the white hat hacker industry ever tanked, Player could probably organize some kind of bodged-together airplane service, like the Goodwill of air travel. With all his connections (and a dragon’s horde of ill-gotten funds), he always found a way to get Team Red on a private, one-way, no-stop flight from point wherever to point wherever else.

Ivy and Zack had it good, compared to what they were used to, inside their silvery three-person private cabin, filled with cushy seats and fold-out beds, a change of clothes for Ivy so she didn’t catch cold—not a single lonely street corner or eviction notice in sight. As for Carmen—

**A Perfectly Objective Observation**  
Cunning genius though she was, Carmen Sandiego had great potential for acting like an utter divvy.

A mess of paper coffee cups from the plane’s infinite supply cluttered Carmen’s space and made the whole cabin reek of bitter beans. She typed away at her little laptop, one-handed on account of the sling, assuredly researching and plotting, with some help from Player. As aforementioned, it was 5:05 in the morning. The sun was still sleeping, and the night sky above the clouds had that ethereal glow it gets in moments of not-quite-darkness, not-quite-dawn, the haze that heralds sunlight.

“You’d think a superthief would know when to quit the caffeine,” snarked Zack to no one in particular. He and Ivy were sitting in a pair of comfy leather chairs. Zack was reading a foreign magazine, and Ivy was glued to her Nintendo Switch, legs pulled up to her chest, which was not the correct way to sit in a chair.

Carmen shot Zack a death glare, which, from Zack’s perspective, felt like staring down a motorcycle headlight.

“What?” he said, shrugging a little too exaggeratedly, “I’m just sayin’!”

“Zack’s got a point, Carm,” said Ivy, not looking up from the console. “Didn’t we just tell you to start taking it easy? The caffeine won’t fix your bones any faster, you know. Buuut maybe if you caught some Zs…”

Carmen leaned back on her little semi-couch, crossing her arm over her chest. “And what’s your excuse, huh?”

“Insomnia,” said Ivy, a little too matter-of-factly. Light from the game reflected over her eyes.

“And I’m making sure you don’t overload on the bean juice,” said Zack.

“I can quit whenever I like. Besides, do _you_ want to plan the caper?”

Zack tugged at his collar, averting his gaze, sucking a breath between his teeth. “Yeeeah, when you put it like that...”

Ivy grabbed an empty coffee cup from the table between her and Carmen and flung it at Zack’s head. It plunked off with a hollow, satisfying sound.

“Aw, c’mon!” Zack rubbed his head. “All right, all right, look—Carm, we’ve got a long flight ahead of us. Just get, like, a _nap_ in, all right? Ivy and I will wake you up if the plane falls out of the sky or they’re serving free falafel.”

The little voice in Carmen’s ear and Ivy and Zack’s phones said, “ _Yeah, Red, what was it you were saying earlier about bedtimes?_ ”

“I’m 20, Player. _I_ can make as many stupid sleeping decisions as I want.” She sighed and closed her laptop. “But maybe you’re right.”

Carmen flopped onto her back across the couch, tucking her forearm behind her mess of red hair.

The case. The manuscripts. Cairo. Le Chevre. Crackle. It was all a big, hot blur in her head. Without the laptop screen or something to distract her, her mind went completely unregulated.

It didn't help that were ribs and the skin under her bandages were burning. There was a certain shame in having to switch out her bandages in the airplane bathroom, just so she didn't have to face the shame of her own destructibility in front of her friends. It was like a hot whisper under her clothes, convincing her she was vulnerable.

But she couldn't be vulnerable. She had to be Carmen Sandiego.

Zack and Ivy noticed that look in her eye. After seven to eight months of travel, they’d started to notice some trends in their boss. The look in her eyes portended a squirming sleep and a breathless, panting awakening the next morning.

“... Hey, uh, Carm,” said Ivy, concern lifting her voice, “Before you get to sleep, why don’tcha, uh—tell us more about that Alhazen guy? Y’know—give us the usual briefing.”

“You really wanna hear all that?” Carmen mumbled.

“Y-yeah, of course! Way more than—whatever this is,” said Zack, tossing the magazine to the floor. It was just getting interesting, too—as interesting as something written in Arabic can be to an American monoglot. “C’mon, hit us with the history lesson.”

Carmen smiled. “Well, if you insist... Player?”

“ _Lady and gentleman,_ ” said Player, “ _Allow Red and I to take you back to the 11th Century A.D._ ”

“ _In 750, the Abbasids, descended from Muhammad’s uncle, took over the Islamic empire, which spanned all the way from modern day Tunisia to Pakistan at its largest!_ ”

“Woah,” said Ivy, “Talk about an inheritance!”

“Cue the Islamic Golden Age,” said Carmen, “The Golden Age was a flood of knowledge, culture, and art across the Abbasid Caliphate. The advent of paper, which was brought over from East Asia and was cheaper and easier to produce than parchment, put that knowledge into the hands of the people so everyone could delight in the new treatises and philosophies.”

“ _Much like the European Renaissance that started in the 14th century, wealthy nobles started patronizing artists and scientists to do their thing without worrying about getting another job, bringing the best and most creative minds into the limelight._ ”

“Hard to make a living as an artist without some rich prick dangling your lunch over your head,” Ivy chimed in. “That’s why we just steal from bad guys for a paycheck instead.”

“Hey—thievery’s an art!” said Zack. “Think we could get some traction on Patreon?”

“Sure, Zack,” said Ivy. “Let’s go ahead and ask for donations from the FBI while we’re at it.”

Carmen chuckled. “Now, among those great minds was Ibn-al Haytham, born in Basra, Iraq in 965 CE, though he had a residence and died in Cairo. He’s better known in the Latinized world as Alhazen or by one of his post-mortem titles: the Physicist.”

“Woah,” said Zack, “ _The_ Physicist? What, was he the only one doing physics back then?”

“Far from it,” said Carmen, “Alhazen is called The Physicist for the same reason Shakespeare is called the Bard: he was so influential, he changed the very nature of the field he was working in.”

“But changing the world wasn’t easy. Alhazen had a pretty dramatic life—stories go that he earned the Caliph’s wrath after backing out of a construction project. Turns out that trying to build a giant hydraulic system that could regulate the Nile’s floods was a bit ambitious. He may or may not have feigned madness at that point, but either way, he ended up on house arrest until the Caliph’s death a decade later.”

“What is it with scientists getting house arrested?” asked Ivy, “Didn’t the same thing happen to Galileo?”

“So you _have_ been paying attention!” said Carmen.

“Hey! I’m a great listener!”

“Yeah,” Zack muttered, “When we’re talking about cute girls or video games.”

Ivy picked up another coffee cup.

“Kidding!” said Zack.

“Anyway,” said Carmen, “Alhazen was a polymath. He authored an estimated 200 scientific works. But it was during that prison sentence, with nothing but light and the time to think about it, that Alhazen created his Magnum Opus: The Book of Optics.”

“Which is currently en route for a relaxing nap at a Cairo museum!” said Zack.

“The Book of Optics is seven-volume compilation of his findings on light and how we perceive it. It refuted the theories of Aristotle, Euclid, and Ptolemy and, more importantly, recounted his experiments, which he conducted using the windows, lamps, screens, and simple tools he had on house arrest.”

“ _The experimentation was the revolutionary part. See, ancient scientists like Plato or Ptolemy mostly worked with theory and observation alone, maybe with some spiritual perfectionism thrown in._ ”

“Which is why they thought Earth was the center of the universe,” scoffed Carmen.

“ _Don’t get Carmen started on how Ptolemaic model of the solar system,_ ” Player moaned, “ _She’ll go on for hours._ "

“Anyway, that wasn’t Alhazen’s style. He hypothesized, put his theories to the test, and then went back and did it all again, getting closer to the truth each time.”

“Ugh,” ughed Ivy, “Flashbacks to middle school science class.”

“Exactly, Ivy,” said Carmen, “Alhazen pioneered the scientific method itself—” Carmen’s voice rose. “You know, the backbone to all modern scientific endeavors?”

“All right, so he’s a pretty important guy, I guess,” said Ivy. “But why would VILE want to steal his fancy book?”

“Ooh!” Zack raised his hand. “It’s that sciencey chick, right? The one with the funky goggles and the punk hairdo? I bet she’d kill for a copy! Literally!”

“Sorry, Zack,” said Carmen. “Nice guess, but not this time”

“Aw, c’mon, why not?”

“Because this doesn’t feel like Dr. Bellum’s handiwork. She’s about as mad a scientist as you can get—if it doesn’t involve starving an entire country or making a rocket explode, she’s not interested. No, no, no—this has Maelstrom written all over it.”

“Oh, yeah—Nosferatu guy, right?” said Ivy.

“Looks like a slug fucked Steve Buscemi?” said Zack.

“One time you found him explaining Freudian theory to a half-peeled grapefruit?” said Ivy.

“That’s the one,” said Carmen. “Maelstrom has a bit of an indirect monopoly over the glasses industry. Don’t ask me how—VILE has a lot of hands in a lot of pots. Point is, I’m willing to bet this is part of ‘Operation Pennybags.’ Cleo told me about it. Maelstrom thinks that, with the proper resources, he can build some kind of giant laser thing, shoot it at population-dense cities, and slowly degrade peoples’ vision without them noticing. Y’know, so they have to buy more glasses.”

The siblings blinked.

“... Carm?” said Ivy. “That is the craziest thing I’ve heard all year, and I’ve been travelling with my brother this whole time.”

“Hey!” said Carmen. “I didn’t come up with the plan!”

“ _It gets worse,_ ” said Player, “ _Remember those 200 works of Alhazen Carmen mentioned? Only a quarter of them have actually survived—Until…_ ”

Zack groaned. “Until they dug up a buncha lost ones back in his hometown and sent them to MIT”

“ _Where Maelstrom plans to steal them, in hopes that they contain some ancient optical secrets that can help him build his machine._ ”

“Aw man, we gotta stop ‘em!” said Zack.

“Of course, Zack,” said Carmen. “We can’t let Maelstrom get his slimy claws an another cultural artifact, especially—”

“Glasses are so not my style,” Zack interrupted, eyes aghast with horror. “Can you imagine? I’ll look like such a poindexter!”

Carmen sighed. “Never change, Zack.”

A beat. Ivy was staring up at the ceiling, eyes narrowed. “Sis?” said Zack. “Are you alright? You look like you’re tryin’ to solve a Rubix cube with telekinesis.”

“Sorry, bro—somethin’ doesn’t add up. If the manuscripts were found in Iraq, and if they’re by a guy who’s _from_ Iraq, then why the heck are they sitting in MIT instead of, I dunno, some museum or nerdy building in the Middle East?”

Carmen closed her eyes and hummed a low hum. “It’s definitely fishy…”

Ivy smiled and punched Zack on the arm. “Hey, you’re getting better! Carm brought up fish, and you barely looked green at all!”

“Thanks for jinxing me, sis!” Zack complained, rubbing his upper arm, “Thanks to you, these funky papers are gonna end up in a clam boat somehow.”

“Anytime, Zack Attack! Anytime.”

Ivy kicked back in her chair, pulling her Switch back up. “Feels good to be going home, huh, bro?”

“... Yeah, sis. It really does.”

“Hey, I just remembered—MIT, right? We can meet back up with Crow!”

“Oh, God, do we have to? They kinda give me the creeps.”

“Maaaaybe, if you play nice, they’ll give _you_ a fancy gadget to keep, like when they gave me Red Drone!”

Zack considered. “You know what? I think I can try to play the gentleman. Just this once.”

“‘Cuz that worked so well the last time.”

And the two shared a look. Underneath the sibling ribbing, it was a nostalgic look, the kind you can only really share when you’re homebound.

Carmen went quiet, save for a sigh. Something like anxiety, but not quite the same, still lived inside of her, but it was quieter now.

Her ribs dully ached.

She squeezed her eyes closed and tried to get some sleep.

* * *

_October 13, 2019_

_Poitier-Biard Airport, Biard, France_

_4:57 a.m. CEST_

Window seat. Empty plane. 15 hour flight. That’s all Julia Argent could think about when her butt hit the 90s-esque confetti-design cushion seat. She was spent.p>

With a sigh, she looked around. Outside her window, purple clouds meandered across the poitiers sky. The night was heavy, like the weight on Atlas’ shoulders. 15 hours. _Maybe I’ll get some rest._

She knew she wouldn’t.

She looked around some more, but there wasn’t much to look at, just more gross confetti-design chairs.

The ACME jet stationed around the Poitier region was out for repairs, and flying another one to Julia was still slower than pulling some strings and booking Julia a solo cruise on a commercial liner which, otherwise, wouldn’t have flown that night. Julia knew the drill: flash the card, take what they have waiting for you, and don’t ask questions. Granted, not asking questions wasn’t Julia’s strong suit.

She squished into the soft give of her chair. The seat’s braided texture felt weird against her back, but she’d get used to it. What she wouldn’t get used to was the uniform.

It was designed for efficiency, for flexibility and movement, for breathability. Hell, it was crafted specifically for her. And yet—she kept adjusting the skirt, trying to get it straight. She pulled and picked at her stockings which felt like torture devices meant to remind her of minor imperfections in the texture of her legs. She tugged at the waist, where her jacket dug into her diaphragm in an ineffective suffocation attempt. She loosened her tie, which felt like it would try to strangle her in her sleep.

It wasn’t her suit. It wasn’t _hers_. Besides, the greyish-blue just wasn’t her color, and—worst of all—the skirt, nearly a pencil skirt, was about as comfortable for Julia as the name implied. It felt like she had to keep her knees together at all times, even when there was no one around—endlessly maddening.

But it was regulation.

She settled into the least uncomfortable position she could and settled in for the long haul.

A beat.

“Quite the sight, huh?”

Julia jumped out of her skin, then collected herself back inside her skin for courtesy’s sake. She looked at the flight attendant who was leaning against the shoulder of the aisle seat one row ahead. Undercut, with sharp bubblegum hair swept to one side. They had a smile like they had a solid 9 hours of sleep, a filling breakfast, and the entire disc set of _Harry Potter_ patiently waiting to be deliciously binged in ¾ of their entirety in the attendant’s cabin near the front. Julia definitely did not peek into said cabin after seeing said attendant pin a lightning bolt to the inside of their vest in order to confirm this suspicion.

The attendant’s nametag read, in hand-drawn cursive English, “Nunya.” They had a look in their eyes like they were scouting out how much of a bother this suit-clad woman, literally the only paying member of this morning’s flight, would be towards her Potter binge.

For some reason, Julia’s mind wasn’t set to French, and it took her a moment to formulate a response.

“So sorry, what did you—”

“The seats,” they said, cool as an icicle. “I’ve seen plenty of empty planes in my time, but an empty plane with only one passenger is just plain freaky, man. You know? Like, if it was totally empty, it’d be fine.”

Julia looked around. “... It does resemble a sort of… ghost town.”

“Yeah. Same vibe as an abandoned hospital, y’know?”

Julia nodded.

.. The attendant was still standing there, which meant Julia had to make idle chit-chat.

“You’ve been working here a long time, then? Since you said, um—”

“Nah,” they said. “Six weeks.”

“Oh.”

“Hey, you mind if we skip all the life preserver and safety exit stuff?”

“Oh—That would be preferable, actually. By now, I, um, get the concept.”

“All right. We’ll getcha in the air soon. You know the drill, fancystocking—but if you need something, just come get me, yeah? That call button’s a nightmare.”

“Right—don’t worry. I’ll try not to be a bother. Thanks.”

The attendant smiled genuinely, then spun and walked away.

Julia collapsed back into her seat, eyes squeezing shut. She was truly exhausted.

“Fancystocking?” Her face twisted in disgust.

The next thing she knew, there was an announcement, a great inhumane jolting of metal, and then the giant tube she was sitting in was hurtling against the rotation of the Earth through the sea of night.

A voice overhead reminded her that she was allowed to use wireless devices, which prompted her to do exactly that. She reached under the seat next to her and fiddled with her bag until she could pull her laptop and earbuds out. As an agent, Julia had learned to condense her entire existence into a single carry-on.

Her old suit was in there, carefully packed in tight at the bottom—just in case.

Her laptop booted up. She intended to either finish up some note-taking on the Sandiego case or otherwise mess around online. Maybe watch a show. Maybe go down a Wikipedia rabbit hole.

Her ACME encrypted web browser window was still open from her last session. Tabs across the top read, “Recent Carmen Sandiego sightings,” “‘Carmen in Cairo!?”’ - 8/13/19, Carmen Fandiego Blogsite,” “C.S. Case Files - ACME Filing System,” and so on. She had a playlist paused—one that, supposedly, would help her focus, though the music quickly faded into the background, the lyrics lost to some shadowy recess of her brain.

A notification blipped onto the lower-right side of her screen. Curious—she clicked it. A little white box popped, a speech bubble spoken from a cartoon red panda head, the mascot of the chat app Harmony, which bobbed happily from side to side.

The Harmony bubble read, “GoatMilk? and NocturnalNoctula4444 are calling! Wanna chat?”

Julia smiled. She noticed for the first time the moonlight outside and how it danced across her screen.

She put in her earbuds and accepted the call in a heartbeat.

The white-backed Harmony screen popped into view, and text from a three-sibling group chat sat snug beneath the now-connecting video frame, into which came an image that, according to a red flag with a white flower on the top right, was broadcast from Hong Kong. Ring, ring...

“ _Hey, big sis!_ ” signed two kids on the other side of the world. The two of them sat cross-legged on the elder’s black bed, rock posters in the background.

On the left, a 15-year-old girl with a deceptively nonchalant and disinterested expression, chin-length hair and unfortunate, transitory bangs, and a black hoodie. Her name was Sei. It was the name she was using for the moment, the kind that she only could have chosen for herself since her parents weren't so cruel as to force it upon her. It was a very Sei name to have.

On the right was a freshly 13-year-old boy, his cheeks, eyes, and nose scrunched up into the biggest sunshiney smile he could manage. He had long, messy hair—the reasoning being, “ _I’ll cut it when I know what to do with it!_ ”—a hand-knitted tan sweater and a scar across the top of his nose from where he’d fallen perfectly onto the corner of a stair step over at the docks several years ago. He’d laughed it off, even while Julia and Sei sweated and fretted over the gash seeping blood. His name was Yáng—again, a name he’d given himself, half as a joke, half because _Sei_ got to change her name, so why couldn't he?

Julia adored them.

“ _Well,_ ” signed Julia, “ _It’s good to finally see you two. You seem rather eager to get me on the call._ ” Her hands flashed through the signs of Hong Kong Sign Language. When she spoke English or French, it was precise, practiced—when she signed, it was exuberant, expressive, natural. It was not her first language—that would be Cantonese—but it might as well have been.

Sei rolled her eyes. In every way but physical, she was crossing her arms. She signed back, her face feigning disinterest: “ _Don’t let your head get any bigger than it already is, sis. We’re just calling because Nanny told us to. Said that you might be getting lonely._ ”

“ _Really_?” quipped Julia with an upturned eyebrow, “ _Is that why you hit ‘call’ the instant I was online?_ ” Her younger sister blushed, eye twitching. “Almost like you were waiting for me…”

As Sei reached for a retort, Yáng reared back into a hearty belly-laugh—well, hearty for a thirteen-year-old. “ _When are you going to learn to quit bluffing around her, Sei? You have no poker face!_ ” Yáng’s signing was eccentric, like he had nuclear reactors in his wrists.

“ _Shut up,_ ” signed Sei.

“ _I am shut up! My lips are sealed!_ ” Yáng smiled like a Cheshire cat. The groan from Sei’s throat was inhumanly angsty.

“ _So!_ ” Julia signed, smiling, “ _How are my favorite children of Loki?_

Sei started, “ _Well—_ ”

“ _Sei got a girlfriend!_ ”

Sei looked like Yáng had taken a lead pipe to her gut.

“ _Yáng, I told you to—_ ”

“ _Really?_ ” Julia drew the sign out, just to relish in the moment of inquiry.

“ _Look, it’s not—it’s not a big deal, okay? Just a girl I met a concert. She’s probably not even that into me._ ”

“ _Sei—_ ” Juia’s expression melted into a kind understanding, encouraging and unambivalently hopeful. “ _Whoever this girl is, she ought to feel blessed to have you in her life. Heaven knows no one will mess with her with you around._ ”

“ _Yeah!_ ” said Yáng, “If they try anything, you might just bite their hands off!”

Sei blushed. Unable to just take a compliment, as is a teenager’s lot in life, she said,

“ _What about you, big sis? You get a girlfriend yet?_ ”

Red sprung up around Julia’s freckles. As she leapt to a response, her hands shook. “ _Well, uh, not—exactly—well, not ‘not exactly,’ just—well, no._ ”

Sei crossed her arms and smirked. Her smirk was practiced for maximum smugness.

“ _I’ve been busy! You know, chasing down criminals as an agent of—_ ” The wrong name almost came out. “ _Interpol? Not a whole lot of time for high romance._ ”

“ _Sure, sure—that old excuse._ ”

Sei knew Julia too well, she realized. Her pushable buttons weren’t so well concealed as they used to be.

Yáng jumped in. “ _Not to worry, big sis! I bet one day, you’ll save a girl from a criminal mastermind in some exotic locale, and then—boom! Romance! Drama! The whole shebang! Like one of those old noire stories!_ ”

“ _Thanks, little sheep, but I don’t think I’m cut out for high adventure and fedora-wearing. I’ll leave that to someone else._ ”

“ _C’mon, don’t sell yourself short!_ ”

“ _Yeah,_ ” Sei cut in. “ _Selling you short is my job._ ”

Julia smiled. “Speaking of—you’re not giving Nanny too _much trouble, are you?_ ”

Yáng signed, “ _Only the standard mischief and hijinx here, big sis!_ ”

“ _Frogs in the teapots?_ ”

“ _Nanny’s favorites!_ ” signed Yáng. “ _She even gave them names._

“ _Rock music at three in the morning?_ ”

“ _Nanny puts up with it so long as I don’t put on_ Confessional. _I think she has a vendetta._ ” signed Sei.

“ _It’s been fun, but—_ ” Yáng paused.

“ _Big sis? When are you going to visit?_ ”

Everything froze. Julia felt her heart sink to her stomach. For a flash, Julia wasn’t seeing the screen, her siblings—she was seeing The Chief stood over Devineaux’s sickbed, Devineaux lying like a blissful lump. She could’ve sworn she saw a blue holographic reflection flash across her computer screen, the shade of responsibility, and she felt the nervous, distinctly adult twinge in her gut to check her bank account and see when she last transferred money to Nanny.

The mirage faded, replaced with Yáng’s eyes. They were too innocent, too—hopeful. They could give the Devil second thoughts about sinning.

“ _Soon,_ ” signed the woman on the other side of the world from her family, “ _Surely, soon._ ”

She muttered it to herself in Cantonese—and though it was her native tongue, it felt alien. “Soon.”

The call ended soon after that. However the conversation ended, Julia didn’t want to remember it. The plane flew away, away, away.

* * *

_October 13, 2019_

_Isle of VILE, Canary Islands, Spain_

_10:05 a.m. WEST_

The alabaster laboratory was the lair of a particularly chemistry-minded dragon, a dragon named Dr. Saira Bellum. No concoctions bubbled—the lab was strangely silent, sans the scratching of a pen—green, gel—against a tiny white leather journal. Dr. Bellum hunched over her study desk as she wrote, in the style of a doctor: chicken scratch. Her goggles sat on her forehead.

“Dr. Bellum?” sang a surreptitiously concerned voice behind her.

Dr. Bellum shrieked like a cockatrice and leapt a foot out of her chair with such force that her mohawk flipped onto its other side. She fumbled her goggles over her eyes. “Yes, yes, I’m very busy with some theory here, and you haven’t made an appoint—” She turned around and was confronted with the goggle-tinted blue-green of the voice’s owner, standing there with her hands clasped in front of her.

“... Oh. Cleo. Um—so sorry. Do you need something? I was going to put coffee on, but I’m afraid it slipped my mind—”

“ _Saira._ ” Cleo said it like it was the first line of an aria. Saira shut up. “I was just coming in to check on you. You seemed rather shaken up earlier.”

“... Oh. O-oh, yes, that—” She offered a smile so fake it would make a mannequin look realistic. She was a scientist, not an actor. “Well, you know how Maelstrom gets on my nerves sometimes. What’s a little friendly rivalry between thieves, right?”

Cleo was unmoved. “Are you certain, Saira?” _Stop saying my name like that, you—siren._

“O-of course! Cleo, really—I am just frustrated with Maelstrom’s waste of our resources. That’s all! Honestly, we should start docking his pay.”

Cleo smiled. “Now there’s an idea. You’re full of them, aren’t you?”

“Weeell,” said Dr. Bellum, leaning her desk in a pose that I’m sure she thought was smooth and not at all dorky, “I don’t mean to brag, but—yes, I suppose I am.”

“Tsk—I really ought to be more careful. Don’t want to feed your ego,” Cleo joked.

“Too late!”

Cleo rolled her eyes. “So—you’re all right?”

“Certainly!”

“Good—” Cleo turned, as if to leave, but stopped—“... And there really isn’t anything between you and this inane escapade of Gunnar’s? Nothing—holding you back?”

“You know me, Cleo. I wouldn’t let anything come between me and VILE’s grand design.”

Cleo only offered a hum in return. She turned out, her heels clicking like a metronome against linoleum. Dr. Bellum watched her leave, then turned with a sigh towards her journal.

“... Saira, dear,” called Cleo, “Are you coming? There’s hot cocoa in the break room.”

“Oooh!” said Dr. Bellum, a smile breaking across her cheeks, “From Venice?”

“I wouldn’t accept less.”

“Hm—I suppose I could take a small break. I think I’ve earned it.”

And one mad mastermind met the other, walking perfectly out of sync away, away from the lab, away from the journal in which a genius poured her soul.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been hard at work on both chapters 2 and 3 the past few weeks. Er-- almost a month. Damn, how does time move so fast? Stress and maturity, man. They're like gravity: they warp time itself. Anyway, point being, I've had this one waiting for a bit, but I just got done editing it, so here it is. I hope you enjoyed it!
> 
> I wasn't sure if chap. 2 and 3 would be one chapter or two when I last updated, so some of the things I promised last time will actually be coming when Chapter 3 comes out. So. Apologies for that. But Chapter 3 should be out much, much sooner, since it's almost done anyway.
> 
> As always, you can find me [@theravenwitchy](https://theravenwitchy.tumblr.com) on Tumblr, and you can find my beta reader/editor [@SyllableFromSound](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SyllableFromSound/pseuds/SyllableFromSound) on ao3.
> 
> Have a nice day, night, or otherwise!

**Author's Note:**

> So.  
> Yeah.
> 
> This is the beginning of an... I'll say "hefty" project. It's gonna be a bit of a long one.
> 
> Here's the honest truth. I haven't written, _really_ written, in way too long. Soooo, this is me getting back into the swing of things. I'll be shocked if I don't come back and edit this chapter at least a little bit by the end of this fic, and I imagine you'll notice a gradual increase in quality as we go along.
> 
> And, yes, believe it or not, this _is_ a fic about Carmen Sandiego and Julia Argent falling in love. That train will start... Much sooner than you think, but its ride will be long.
> 
> In the meantime, feel free to talk to me or see my incessant ramblings and reblogs at [@theravenwitchy](https://theravenwitchy.tumblr.com), and feel free to leave a comment telling me what you think or responding to any in-fic prompts you found-- I encourage it.
> 
> Things to look forward to next chapter:  
> \- A lot more of Julia being Julia, not Julia being an Agent of ACME with way too much on her mind. This girl has a lot of character, and I'm looking forward to exploring all of it throughout the fic.  
> \- Learning  
> \- The Western World, And What's Shitty About It.  
> \- An original character!  
> \- Jokes
> 
> All aboard, and thanks for riding with us.


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